


la saveur du présent

by evening_spirit



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, season four speculation, season four spoilers, silverflint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit
Summary: *the taste of the presentIs this what drowning feels like? Muldoon lied. He said the worst of it doesn't last long. That water warms you and settles you and shows you good places and people you loved.It isn't true.This fic was inspired by marsza's recount of "the first ten minutes of season four". Some spoilers, but mostly speculation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [marsza](http://marsza.tumblr.com/)'s recount of "[the first ten minutes of season four](http://marsza.tumblr.com/post/151515224230)", specifically by this:  
> A blast throws Silver off the ship with its impact, he falls right into the water and his peg leg is entangled in some of the ship’s ropes, preventing him from reaching the surface. Madi yells after him, obvs distraught. Flint begins to take off his coat to dive in after Silver but then he hesitates as the attack continues and more of the crew are being killed around him. The clip ends with him (and the audience) looking onto the water with waning hope that Silver survived.
> 
> Thank you to Pianka ([flintbysilver](http://flintbysilver.tumblr.com/)) for handholding and encouragement and giving this story a once-over. You're wonderful *blows kisses all over you*.
> 
> The title isn't really connected with the story. It's just a quote from one of the songs I've been listening to a lot lately ( _La Lessive_ by Zaz). It means **"the taste of the present"**.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy.

* * *

Is this what drowning feels like? Muldoon lied. He said the worst of it doesn't last long. That water warms you and settles you and shows you good places and people you loved.

It isn't true. Silver is scared, he's as terrified as he'd never been in his entire life. And he knows this is the end, he will not survive this. Everything he's done to make sure it did not come to this – it was all for nothing.

The water is cold, freezing cold and heavy like lead when it soaks his woolen trousers and coat. Silver beats against it, but it pays him no mind, unconcerned. It embraces him, hugs like in mother's arms, restrains any movement. It strokes his face with cold fingers of death, pushes them into his throat and Silver chokes, coughs, fights. He has fought to survive for as long as he can remember.

One more swing, one more kick. It's the leg, he realizes. It's the fucking peg-leg that got tangled in the ropes and now drags him under. If he could only draw one more breath, he would take a dive and untie the knot, free himself. If he only could.

But he can't. The water closes above him and he sees Muldoon's face, his wide open eyes. And he knows it is futile, all the fight, all his life. Death comes at the end anyway, for everyone, it is the natural consequence of being alive. Why did he spend all of that time trying to ward off the inevitable? He could have given up so long ago and be spared all the suffering. Why did he keep fighting?

* * *

Water makes you cold, makes you scared, Muldoon said. But then it warms you. He said that, too.

Silver feels warmth on his cheeks, but it doesn't feel like warm water.

It feels like sun rays.

He opens his eyes and closes them right away, blinded by searing light.

He is flat on his back and under his fingers he feels the grating structure of the sand. Eyes still closed, he catalogues other sensations. He's breathing, so that's a good start. The air smells of moss and litter. Waves crash against the beach somewhere near, their song like a soft whisper. Someone is breathing next to him.

When he tries to move, he has to add at least dozen sores and aches to those sensations, the worst of them – and the one familiar now like the back of his hand – the tearing in his nonexistant left shin. A gasp escapes him and the rhythm of the one breathing next to him immediately changes in response. Becomes faster.

"Silver," a disembodied voice rasps. A rough hand touches his cheek. The next word, "John?" is so tender and fearful, Silver has to see who that is, even though in his heart he already knows.

The face blocks the sun, but its rays shine through close-cropped hair in golden flickers, dance in fiery beard, even reflect in those gorgeous green eyes.

Tentatively Silver lifts his hand (it hurts too, just above the elbow) to make sure this face is not a mirage. "I guess I'm alive," he breathes out, because that's all the voice he can manage.

Flint purses his lips, blinks and moves away. "Good," he utters and Silver feels cold where his hand has been. Sun assaults his eyes once again.

The moment is over. He bites his lips in regret and pushes it down, where it cannot hurt.

It is time to remember how they got here in the first place. He did not die, that has to count for something, apparently those efforts he put into ensuring his survival paid off after all. Captain Flint needed him enough, that he jumped into the water and pulled him to the shore. He saved the man who threatened to be his end – oh, the irony. Is he really that good of a quartermaster that Flint feared his people would not follow him, without Silver persuading them to it?

"Walrus?" he asks out of obligation.

"Sunk."

"The crew?"

"Probably washed ashore someplace else. Hopefully. We must find them."

With significant effort Silver pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks around. The sky is blue, the sea is sparkling. Pebbly beach stretches to the left and curves toward the sea to the right, crowned with bright green of the shrubs. They are somewhere west of Nassau, he thinks, because on the town's east side the sea shore is more rocky.

They must move, he huffs out a lungful and looks at the stump of his leg. Flint must have yanked the boot off when he saved his life. A small price to pay, come to think of it.

Flint extends his hand, an offer of help clear in the gesture, and Silver thinks back to the day he dragged Flint out of the sea. Feels like a hundred years ago. Flint refused his assistance then. Now, Silver clasps his palm with Flint's and allows to be pulled up to his feet.

His foot.

He is unsteady, a little dizzy, aching, winded, but that's not why he doesn't let go of Flint's hand. He holds their fists clasped fast between their chests and looks up to meet Flint's eyes.

"Why did you jump in after me?" he asks against his better judgment. He needs to know. Was it only to save his quartermaster? Was it only so they could keep fighting this war? Or does he matter to Flint for some other reason, the way Flint matters to him now.

When Silver saved him from the sea, it was because he saw Flint as means to an end, the safest bet to ensure his survival. When he talked Flint out of sacrificing himself in the Maroon camp, it was because he cared. He cared about Flint alone.

Could it be possible Flint felt the same?

Something in Flint's face flickers, a minute grimace betraying real emotion and then it vanishes again, Flint closes his expression, distances himself and Silver can't have it.

"James," he hears himself whisper. "Tell me the truth."

The answer is unexpected. No words come out of Flint's mouth, just a guttural moan and then Flint grabs the back of Silver's head and crushes his lips against Silver's like a man starved to death. The need, the desperation is so primeval Silver is momentarily taken by surprise, but he feels it, too, his body feels it before his mind catches up and he gives in. He returns the kiss in as insistent a manner as he is being kissed. Raw. Urgent. He sways on his one foot, feels he's about to fall, but he never breaks contact, Flint does, unravels their hands and grabs Silver's back, steadies them both, his lips move to Silver's cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his chin and when Silver's lips touch Flint's cheek, his tongue tastes salt. Water and salt.

He touches Flint's face and pulls away and feels his eyes sting as well. He waited so long for this. His whole life.

Flint rests his forehead against Silver's and heaves a sigh from the bottom of the earth itself. They stay like this for a long time, Silver counts his heartbeats and wishes they could never let go. But that's not what life is about, he thinks, it's not about those moments you want carved in stone. Life keeps on moving, ever changing.

Perhaps, though, perhaps it has more moments like this yet to offer.

Finally, he doesn't merely survive. Finally, he is alive.

* * *

.end

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)  
> Comments give me life.


End file.
